Chương 320: Book Six, Chapter 82: Tom

Antoine's show ended with a prayer. Every head was bowed, every eye closed, except, of course, for Antoine's, because he had never seen this prayer before and needed to read the words off the teleprompter. The show had been a major success, even bigger than I had originally planned. There wasn't a better way to dangle Antoine out like bait and establish that the time skip had worked. We had a section where we celebrated the life of each missing celebrity, journalist, or comedian.

Antoine invited members of the families and friend groups of the victims to sit in the audience. It was nice, or at least it should have been. He still tried to hawk his supplements a few times. I didn't plan those sections; they just happened. His closing words that weren't even on the teleprompter were this: "The past year has been one of community and kindness. We were all touched by this unexplained tragedy, and through it, I think we discovered something important about each other.

We learned we could show up for one another. We could be better neighbors. We could be better friends. My hope is that we do not need another tragedy like the Carousel Vanishings to remind us of that again." Antoine had adlibbed that last little bit, maybe because he felt sick at how shallow he had come across. Perhaps he just wanted his character to have growth. He got a standing ovation. Most of the show had been terribly exploitative. As much as I tried, I wasn't able to change that. The script was the script.

I took it as a learning opportunity about the culture of the story. People in this world were callous and mean-spirited. It was in the air. It had to be. The Night Stockers had the Judgement Call trope, which caused them to target individuals they deemed immoral. What exactly did a flying cult of human-sacrificing cultists consider immoral? As I read my character's journal, I started to get an idea, but to get it On-Screen, I had to meet up with a friend.

I hadn't had as much time as I might have liked to read through the materials my character had collected for me during my year-long hiatus, but luckily, they had made a sort of guide that helped me find the important stuff. How convenient. One element that was emphasized had nothing to do with the magic system or the entity underground. It had to do with Tom Carmichael, leader of the cult. That's why I had called him up to meet.

With enough subtle-ish pushing, I got him to meet me at his brother's memorial on the far end of the parking lot at Eternal Savers Club. On-Screen. It was July, but the weather was cool. The sky had been overcast for weeks, apparently. I wouldn't know personally.

"Tom," I said as I approached him from behind. He didn't turn around. He stared down at his brother Lance's name and started to speak.

"He was older than me," Tom said.

"Well, he used to be. He was five years older than me, but he wasn't like one of those mean older brothers. When I was in seventh grade, I got picked on pretty badly. A bully broke my arm. Teachers didn't care. Said I had to learn to stick up for myself, you believe that? Just one of me, a whole group of bullies. But I had to stand up for myself. That was the problem."

"A bit hard to do with one arm," I said. He laughed.

"Yep. But in truth, I didn't have only one arm. Not really. I had dozens." He looked back at me over his shoulder, looking for my reaction. I put on a confused look.

"My brother was captain of the baseball team. During my PE class, he brought the whole team over from the high school, and they surrounded the kid who was harassing me. He nearly peed in his shorts. I never got messed with again. He was always better than he had to be, my brother. He was a hit with the girls, and my parents loved him, but I was his favorite person. He told me so. Of course, he was just trying to make me feel special. He was a good guy. He didn't belong to this world."

Tom was crying, but he tried to keep it in. I waited as long as I could bear.

"Tom," I said.

"What happened to him? I know a little bit, but not everything. I don't mean to be rude. You talk so much about your brother's life, but all of this… the meetings, the new world… It's because of his death, right? What happened to him?" The truth was, I already knew. My character had learned it over the time skip, but this needed to be On-Screen. It was essential. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Tom finally turned all the way around and looked at me squarely.

"He was a construction management guy. He wanted to be a welder, to work with his hands, but every job he got on, they kept finding a way to put him in charge. He was such a good leader. That's why he was here early that morning. He opened up the jobsite back when they were first building the Club…" As Tom spoke, Carousel decided to switch to a flashback. I didn't need to see the flashback. I knew what happened because "I" had written it down with great detail and a bunch of research.

It started when a state senator named Neil Darbin was attempting to live the party life of Carousel during a break in the legislative session. This was the place to find the party, after all. It was the Geists' own little Hollywood. Lots of important people were known to come to this version of Carousel. Senator Darbin had run headfirst into the nightlife of Carousel. He found liquor and some funny cigarettes. He found every party in town.

At one of those parties, someone found him, an expensive lady of the night named Jestine, who snatched him up with promises of a wonderful night to come. Darbin had taken his lady and his booze and his Mozley X2-6 sportscar for a ride. He ran red lights and sped around the highways all around Carousel. That was, until he found his way to the area west of downtown.

He took a sharp turn off the brand new turnpike, flew off the road, down the hill, and straight through the parking lot in the place that would one day be Eternal Savers Club. He must have mistook the accelerator for the brake. Jestine, the escort, swore he was trying to brake. Darbin didn't manage it in the end, because he plowed his X2-6 right through the fencing that closed off the construction site for the store.

His car was traveling nearly a hundred miles an hour, according to estimates, when he ran through the fence and on through a large, plastic porta-potty that had been placed on the site for the construction workers to use. His car hit a pile of rebar and started flipping end over end, until it came to a stop in the middle of the foundation for the building. Senator Darbin died almost instantly. He only had one major injury, a head wound from when he went through the windshield. The glass had done a number on him.

The concrete had done more. His lady friend didn't walk away, exactly, but she did survive, with broken ribs and a few missing teeth. But that was not the part of the story that concerned Tom. The thing was, that porta-john that Senator Darbin had crashed through was in use at the time of the accident. Tom's brother, Lance, was inside. He was thrown around like a rag doll. Broke every bone in his back. He died in agony waiting for the ambulance to show up.

Some stated he was still alive as the sun rose on the scene of the accident, but not much longer after that. But none of that, itself, is what angered Tom. Emergency services prioritized getting Jestine out of the crumpled sports car over dealing with the bodies of Lance or Senator Darbin. However, against protocol, their bodies had been moved near each other to keep them out of the way. As one might expect, Lance… wasn't fully dressed.

He was caught with his pants down, as it were, and when he was tossed from his perch in the porta-potty, his jeans had disappeared in all the turbulence. Out of respect, a green paramedic had thought it wise to use Senator Darbin's suit jacket to cover Lance's exposed genitals. He used the other end of the jacket to cover the senator's face, but did a poor job of both, leaving both partially exposed under the coat.

A tabloid reporter snuck into the scene of the crime, and they swore they didn't do anything to pose the bodies. They swore up and down. But the picture they took was incredibly suggestive. Lance, with his hard hat and yellow vest both miraculously still in place, Senator Darbin, his face perilously close to Lance's mid-section… The picture was scandalous. The headline that ran with it was even worse: SENATOR DARBIN DIES IN FIERY CRASH WHILE ENGAGING PROSTITUTE.

It was technically true, but of course, the headline with the picture of Senator Darbin next to a masculine, pantsless construction worker… it suggested something else. The paper blew up. Those headlines made headlines of their own. They made punchlines, too. One comedian joked, "You know things are bad when they have to blur the chalk outline." Another said, "The police have not been able to rule out foreplay—I mean foul play. Foul play. Oops. Slip of the tongue." And another.

"Darbin was known for taking unexpected positions in politics, but this is ridiculous." The jokes went on and on and on.

"Darbin was trying to get our money's worth from that infrastructure bill last August."

"Don't be crass. Darbin would never sleep with someone who was wearing protection. Come on, people, the hard hat!"

"Darbin was just there to inspect the plumbing," another said.

"DARBIN GREASES CONSTRUCTION WORKER'S UNION," another tabloid headline ran. The jokes were plentiful. A young entertainer working as a contributor on a talk show after a career in professional sports took a shot at the situation, too. He said, "It's no question. Neil Darbin died the way he lived, screwing the working class." That entertainer went on to have his own talk show. His name was Dr. Antoine Stone.

"Those monsters!" Tom said.

"He was a good person. He didn't deserve to be made fun of by people who didn't even know him. They called him a prostitute. They didn't care about who he really was. At least the senator got a memorial. Lance got nothing but mockery…" He fell to his knees, his pain still fresh.

"It lasted for months, Riley," he said.

"They were still talking about it for months. They mocked him in his death, and then they never apologized. They never cared. I don't know how. How do you treat someone so badly just for laughs? Just for money. Then, when I tried to let people know who the real Lance was, that he deserved to be cherished and remembered well, they mocked me for it. All of them did." He was so impassioned… I couldn't help but get watery-eyed myself.

"I stood there by the road with a sign with Lance's face, telling people he didn't deserve to be mocked. People tried to give me money. Because that makes it all okay, right? I just wanted them to feel ashamed. I wanted to know about Lance…. He was too good for this world. He didn't belong here. That's why I have to leave. In the new world, people are kind. They care about you, you know. Even when bad stuff happens, you aren't alone." He stood up and took a few steps toward the store.

"It won't be long now," he said.

"Tom," I said. Dammit, I was holding back tears.

"Some of the others say they can hear their loved ones calling from the new world. Do you hear Lance?" Tom looked back at me, he looked me square in the eye and said, "I hear all of them." For just a second, I swore I could see them too—just a flash, floating all around us, spirits. Spirits of the dead. Other spirits, too. Then he walked away toward the store. Off-Screen.